


A Dash Of Cold Water

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4804175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm’s been a fool, but there’s some consolation.  He’s hardly the only one. Reflections after episode 3.17 “Hatchery”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dash Of Cold Water

**Author's Note:**

> Told from Malcolm’s perspective, and perhaps a touch unsympathetic toward Major Hayes because of it. Being a slightly insecure English perfectionist myself, there’s little doubt where my sympathies lie during Season Three :-)

“Coffee. Black.”

Tucker would laugh his arse off at me but it’s all I seem to drink these days. It’s Chef’s fault of course.

Bitter and pungent, his resequenced caffeine shot tastes like a lovely combination of stale chicory and MACO piss but it’s hot, wet, and unlike the Horlicks he’s made of the formulation for hot, sweet tea it doesn’t feel like sacrilege to use its official designation.

Besides, while there’s no better treatment for shock than the Original British Cure ™ I find I’m becoming inured to it, and them. From the day we heard of the Xindi attack it’s been one shock, one crisis, after another.

I never expected one to drive me to mutiny, mind. I daresay a dozen generations of Reeds are still splashing in their watery graves.

It’s absurd. Ever since that smarmy little Hitler goose-stepped his platoon of square-bashers onto the ship I’ve been waiting for Archer to give him what he so clearly believed was his due: total authority over those aspects of the mission that rest with the Armoury and Chief Tactical Officer. It wasn’t until he did precisely that – on the bridge, dismissing me from duty for doing my job in front of the whole crew – that I realised how monumentally stupid an act that would be.

It was like being splashed in the face with icy water. My worst fear, the prospect that’s haunted me with reminders of my own inadequacy for months, turned on its head, into proof positive that my captain had lost his marbles.

Well done, Reed. How did you manage to graduate only second in your Academy class again?

No clodhopping space marine is qualified to command a cargo hauler on a training run to Jupiter Station, let alone a starship in the middle of a war zone. Archer knows that. And yet he still did it, because his Senior Tactical Officer had done his duty and eliminated a clear, immediate threat.

Stark, staring bonkers.

My team backed me. Hoshi disobeyed a direct order from the captain’s chair; Travis risked his career by whacking the man who sat in it, then obeyed my instruction and escorted the gallant Major to his quarters with the biggest grin this side of Denobula Prime threatening to split his face. I won’t deny a certain grim satisfaction in our little altercation, and I doubt I’m the only one to have envisioned having a weapon trained on a very specific head in recent months.

Hayes must feel a right berk this morning. He’s not the only one!

There’s Captain Archer, for starters. Always assuming he was the great blue streak I spotted flashing across the bridge midmorning. If turning mutineer is a stain on one’s conscience, I wonder how bad actually provoking one must feel.

No worse than Trip does, given how crushed he looked when he was summonsed earlier. It’s going to be a while before he gets over pointing a gun at his friend – his hero.

“Archer to Lieutenant Reed.”

Bugger. Seems I’m about to find out.

“Reed here, sir.” Thank heaven the observation lounge is empty. It’s not good for the ranks to hear their C.O. sniffling like a frightened schoolboy.

“I’d appreciate your company in the Ready Room if you can spare me the time, Malcolm.”

“On my way, sir.”

Name, not rank. It’s unnerving to realise how much I’ve come to value that, but right now I’ll clutch at any straw. He had all senior officers send their reports to his quarters. Of course he wants to discuss them in person but Jonathan Archer isn’t the man to make nice before delivering the old bollock-mincing. If you’re in trouble, you know it long before the headmaster’s door slams shut.

Shit. This isn’t the private conversation I expected. “Captain. Major.”

“Sir.” 

Ouch. That stung on the way out didn’t it, soldier?

“Thanks for your report, Malcolm.” This is Archer in _expansive mode_ but I know all too well what’s behind it: that painful blend of embarrassment and uncertainty. “And for what you did yesterday. I guess it went hard against the old nautical grain for you, turning mutineer.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen myself as the Fletcher Christian type, sir.”

Surprisingly, they both get the reference. Have we shown _The Mutiny on the Bounty_ at movie night recently? “Does that make me Captain Bligh?” Archer ponders. Ah, that’s a genuine grin. It’s good to see.

This is harder for him than for either of us, shoulder to shoulder and doing our level best to ignore the fact. “He was a highly respected officer until that – unfortunate incident,” I point out.

“Thanks.”

Hayes is out of his depth with this. Banter. I sympathise: it took me a while to appreciate Jonathan Archer’s unorthodox command style, the informality, the openness to debate. West Point takes the classic view I suspect, and Hayes fits it perfectly. He’s a damn good soldier of course, but like many a good soldier throughout history, he’s unimaginative.

Always obey the last order. No matter how bloody ridiculous it might be.

Theirs not to reason why; theirs but to do and die. It’d make a good motto for the MACOs, actually.

“I asked you in together because I need to apologise to you both.” And there was I thinking he simply enjoyed setting my teeth on edge! “Malcolm, you did a damn fine job yesterday and instead of handing out a commendation, I relieved you of your duties.”

“It’s quite all right, sir.” Sometimes as I hear myself parroting the _necessary courtesies_ I understand why that irritating hick of an engineer finds me so hilarious, but on this occasion there’s a qualifier. “It was only when you elected to hand command of the ship in action to an unqualified person – with the greatest of respect Major, I don’t believe your training includes commanding an NX class vessel – that I realised you were probably out of your mind. Again – no offence intended.”

“None taken, Lieutenant,” he says grandly, but there’s a steeliness there you’d have to be denser than the average gas giant to overlook. “Major?”

“None, sir.”

I’d be disappointed if I thought he meant that!

“This is why your people are subordinated to the orders of my Chief Tactical Officer on this trip, Mister Hayes.” The civilian designation won’t go down well – did he learn nothing from calling my father _Mister_ , or was it deliberate? – and it’s as subtle as a clout with a house brick, but even as he’s looking at the MACO I know he’s speaking squarely to me. “Your job is to support us in prosecuting our mission; Malcolm’s first duty is to protect this ship and its crew, whatever it takes. I apologise for putting you both in an impossible position yesterday, and I hope it won’t make co-operation between your teams more difficult from now on.”

“I’m sure it won’t sir.” I can be gracious. Whatever his pretensions, real or (and I admit it’s possible) wholly imagined, there’s no question of the chain of command now. I’ve won.

It’s a pretty hollow victory with so many good people, Starfleet, MACO and civilian alike already dead. 

“It won’t, Captain.” 

I under-estimated Jeremiah Hayes. Perhaps at the same time as I was over-estimating him. He swivels on his heel and looks me in the eye as he says it. “I’ve cancelled the invitation to senior offices for target practise on Monday, Lieutenant,” he announces, and though he cocks his head, obviously picking up on the undercurrents, Archer holds his tongue. “I’ve assigned the time to my people instead - if you’re happy to let us use the armoury.”

“Any time that’s convenient, Major.” Trip will be pleased. “And if you’ve picked up any other weak spots from your simulations…”

“I wish I had, sir.” There’s a nod from the chair and we turn sharply, Hayes hanging back to allow me onto the bridge first. Christ, I’ve been a fool.

We’re in this together, Starfleet and MACO. And we have a much better chance of survival if we remember that.

I’ve been a piss-poor excuse for a senior officer lately and though I’m hardly alone in that, what with the Captain obsessed chasing his whale, Trip and T’Pol doing… whatever the hell it is they’ve been doing (and I’m not sure even they could explain it), I’m determined to do better in future.

It’s the least my captain – and my crew – deserve.


End file.
